


And Indeed There Will Be Time

by FrostedGemstones22



Series: Kings and Queens of Promise [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x06, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fix-It, Missing Scene, Slow Burn, Trying to make sense of canon, viva la vida gendrya fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostedGemstones22/pseuds/FrostedGemstones22
Summary: Five moments left out from the last episode of Game of Thrones where Arya and Gendry find the way back to each other.Or, trying to make sense of 8x06 and write Gendrya as canon within the episode.





	And Indeed There Will Be Time

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that episode was...*longest sigh in the universe*.  
> Thank god for Fanfiction.  
> I'm not mad that at least Gendry and Arya's ending was open-ended enough that this COULD happen. I hate that they had NOTHING to say to each other in the last episode since Gendry was such a huge part of her arc in the earlier episodes, so I fixed it. 
> 
> Excuse any errors or tense change. I wrote this all in one sitting to cope with the ending of the series. 
> 
> Titles is from the poem 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', which is perhaps my favorite poem of all time.

_O N E_

 

In perhaps the only unbroken mirror in the entirety of King’s Landing, Arya examined her reflection. She dips the rag into the half-cracked bowl, wrings out the warm water as she gently lifts it to her face.

Behind her, the once carefully crafted mosaics and frescoes on the walls had crumbled over, leaving large rocks and painful shards skittering across the floor. The once beautiful furniture was charred and splintered, the curtains and sheets were torn.

And then there was the ash.

If Arya forgot, for a moment, that she was in the South, she may look into the mirror and imagine herself back at Winterfell. She might see the dusting of white over everything and think that one of the maids forgot to close the door tightly enough, and the winter freeze had crept its way in. She may think that it is snow at her feet, and not the burning of a thousand innocents and the very city. She might be able to forget what Daenerys has done.

It matters little now that the Dragon Queen is dead, she supposes, but she wished that the ash could be like snow and melt under the deceptively warm welcome sun that shines through the cracks in the wall.

She dabs the cloth to her face, wiping away the darkened, caky blood and the sallow ash. The water in the bowl is more black than clear, but Arya continues her cleaning. She could probably find a warm bath, but something about the idea of bathing in these ghostly halls makes her spine shiver.

At her newest scar, tender and just starting to bruise around the edges, Arya presses with gentle fingers. She bites her tongue at the familiar sting of a wound, and she knows that this will not fade with time, but will be present on her face for years and years, a reminder of this fateful day.

Someone is slinking outside the room. Arya was not no one for most of her formative years to not hear the slightest touch of feet on the stones. She whips around, grasps Needle, and is ready. She doesn’t think anyone is left that wants to war, the remaining people are celebrating in the streets the start of peace, but Arya never lets her guard down.

“Arya.”

Gendry steps over the rubble into the room, and Arya lowers her sword to her side. Of all the people in the world, besides her family, Gendry is one Arya has nothing to fear from.

“That was swift,” Arya says, as she knows that Davos had sent out ravens to all the ruling lords and ladies to come to King’s Landing the discuss the trials of Tyrion and Jon as well as to consider the recently opened power vacuum.

“I left right after you, as soon as I realized you’d left Winterfell.”

Arya turns, scowls, and sets her sword back onto the semi-functional table. She feels something in her heart pound, but shoves it back down.

“That was foolish, Gendry. Had you been here earlier, you could have been killed,” She says quietly, the imagine of Gendry burning with the city making her hand shake as she reaches for the rag again.

Gendry is by her side almost as silent as she herself moves. Her fingers haven’t fully brought the cloth to her face. She doesn’t even flinch as Gendry takes the rag from her. Her body is like a statue as he turns her, ever so gently, and kneels before her. Arya had thought upon how tall Gendry was many times before, but it isn’t until he’s on his knees and his face still comes to hers that she really realizes how he just dwarfs over her.

He grabs the bowl, his jaw set into a deep frown, and continues on the left side of her face, where Arya has not yet gotten a chance to clean. She knows how rough his hands are, how strong they can be, but there is something indescribably gentle with the way he is cleaning her.

As a girl, Arya hated her maids. She’d scream and kick anyone who had attempted to brush her hair or put her into a dress. While Sansa had always relaxed into the baths as maids had rubbed off her porcelain skin, Arya had put up enough of a fuss to be allowed to bathe alone. Even now, if anyone had attempted to do this, Arya would have sooner stuck them with Needle than allowed it. However, she had no such desire to stop Gendry. While her brain reminded her of how much she despised being taken care of, her fingers and body resolutely remain motionless.

“Why did you come here?” Gendry asks.

“To kill Cersei.” The words almost caught in her throat. She is horribly torn. On one hand, she feels as though if perhaps she had managed to kill Cersei early on, perhaps Dany would not have burned the city. Perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps she’d be preparing for a coronation or a wedding right now, and things would have not been so bad.

But she would have died. And, for as long as Arya had worshipped Death, she didn’t want to go into his arms so soon.

“I hear the ceiling did that for you,” Gendry offers, a hint of a smile on his face.

“I wish it had been me.”

Gendry pauses, searching her eyes, “To kill her? For your revenge?”

Once, that’s all it would have been. Now, Arya just feels responsible for all those children in the streets that are cold corpses.

“Because-,” She breaks off, unable to express it.

“I’m glad you didn’t. You would have been dead too, you realize.” Gendry sounds angry. She’s seen him angry before, but something in his eyes tells her he is more furious than ever before. It’s not unfamiliar though, it’s the same kind of anger she feels in her bones when she thinks of Gendry coming so foolheartedly after her.

He sets down the rag, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks. For one wild second, Arya is sure he’s going to kiss her again. She is halfway between jerking back, halfway to just meeting him in the middle, her heart thumping like the hooves of a calvary.

She thinks of how, in the middle of that warn-torn and burning street, she’d seen that white horse. The steed with its snowy flank, and she’d thought of Gendry. She thought of Gendry coming in on that white horse to Winterfell, and how it had been years since she’d seen him, but how her chest had felt warm and also sort of hurt. She wasn’t thinking about a lot in the heat of the battle, but a part of her knows that she felt like she would have been cheated out of something if she never got to see him again.

She wants to kiss him, but she does not.

He asked her to marry her, and she said no. She cannot be giving him false hope, not when she herself hardly has hope for anything now.

Gendry’s hands fall to his side, as though remembering their last conversation. She can see the shadow of hurt still present on his face.

He stands and swallows hard.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” He rasps.

“I am too.”

It is, Arya thinks, at least a start.

 

_T W O_

 

The council is set for a moon from the day that King’s Landing fell. There is so much to get done that it seems insurmountable. The city is broken, the Red Keep is inhabitable, and those who survived are struggling. The streets need to be cleaned, the towers and rooms need to be made presentable and the people who somehow survived are either covered in bubbling, infected burns or are wondering why they survived when most had not.

Arya throws herself into whatever is needed to be done. It is partly to assuage the guilt of her own inability to kill Cersei, it is partly to keep her mind busy. She wants no time to think about things past the singular days she spends clearing out rocks or sitting with the smallpeople, for a future is too much for her.

She always imagined herself dying young. After completing her list, she wasn’t sure she’d find a reason, and a part of her knew that killing the last person would likely result in her death as well. To have survived this far feels foreign and unsure. She is half convinced that she will perish any day, like the Red Woman who stumbled into the snow and became dust, having completed her mission.

Arya is still young. She is still more a child than an adult, she thinks. Had the world not gone sideways, had her father not died, Arya may have been married off only a handful of years ago. She might not have just been betrothed at this age, her wedding a near occasion in the upcoming moons. She has so much of her life laid out before her and suddenly...she’s not sure where to go next.

In the moments her mind is not occupied, sometimes she finds her fancies to be far-flung and laughable. She considers each path with equal measure; a path where she vanishes from the world, a path where she joins Sansa and Bran in the North, a path where she votes for an abandoned castle and invites in all the orphans of the war, and finally a path that brings her to Gendry.

She will never say it out loud, but a part of her wants that final path to come true so badly it hurts.

She doesn’t know how it would work. That path splits off into even small paths. There’s one where she marries him, becomes a Lady despite all her protests. There’s one where she remains as a mistress to whoever Gendry does marry in the end. There’s one where Gendry refuses his title and the pair disappear into the forests and live out their days on the road, like they had during the early years of their friendship.

Arya isn’t sure of much in this new world, and more than anything, she’s most unsure about Gendry.

He stays for a fortnight in King’s Landing to assist with the beginning renovations. However, he cannot ignore the newly-minted title he’s been given for long, even if it was handed to him by the woman the small folk are calling The Mad Queen. There’s a great discussion if it should be considered valid, but the truth of the matter is that there is no one at Storm’s End and Gendry is the son of Robert Baratheon. It is his right.

The night before he leaves, Arya seeks him out.

“I thought I’d have to find you,” Gendry says as soon as she slips from the shadows in front of him, “I say goodbye to people before I leave,” He says, a hint of bitterness on his tongue. As much as it hurts, Arya knows it to be true. She regrets not telling him anything before leaving Winterfell, but she was unsure how to tell him that she images that she’d walk to her death.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Not long. I have to be back for the council,” Gendry runs his hand over his nearly-shaved head, “I’m one of the most important Lords in Westeros now.” He adds this with a bit of disbelief, a weak laugh.

“You deserve it,” Arya says, hands clasped in front of her, “Out of anyone, you deserve the title of a Lord.”

“I told you before and I’ll say it again...I don’t know what I’m doing, Arya.”

“Few truly do,” Arya says, thinking of all the Lords and Ladies who absolutely ran their houses and lands into nothing, of all the poor choices made by people who weren’t fit to lead, “I think you’ll figure it out fine.”

Gendry chuckles, clasping on his coat, “It’s it crazy I nearly don’t want to go? To Storm’s End? I almost...I almost said no.”

Arya tilts her head, frowning, “I don’t understand.”

“I told you,” Gendry’s voice is quiet, “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be a Lord without you.”

Arya snaps her eyes to meet his. She gives him distance over these past weeks. She’s let him be. She thought he was pulling away from her, having realized his affections for her were a silly childhood crush, and she’d been steeling herself for the announcement that he’d found love with someone else.

“I wanted to tell you before, but you’ve been tactfully ignoring me,” Gendry continues.

“Not ignoring you,” Arya corrects, “I’ve been giving you time to think...in case…”

“In case what?” Gendry shakes his head, “In case I decided I wasn’t in love with you?” It’s the second time he’s told her that, but it makes the hair stand up the same, still makes her throat tighten and her whole body warm.

She cannot think of an answer, not when he’s staring at her like he is.

“I cannot think of a time, Arya, when I won’t love you. I don’t need to think at all.”

It’s only a couple steps between them, but in an instant, there’s no space and his lips are hot on hers. They’d only kissed on two occasions; the first, the night before the battle, Arya had kissed him. The second, the night after, Gendry had kissed her. This time, Arya could not have said who kissed who first, all she knows is they both moved at the same time, as though pulled together by a string that guided them to each other, and Arya never wanted it to end.

She thinks if she’d sought him out sooner, maybe they would have had more time for this. Maybe Gendry would have led her to his bed, laid her down, and made her feel good again. As it is, she can feel his desire hardening against her thigh and all she wants to do is shove down his breeches and have him again, but there is not the time for that. Gendry and a small assembly of bannermen are set to leave for Storm’s End in less than an hour.

It’s for the better, perhaps. The first time they’d had sex, Arya had done it just out of curiosity and with the hope that this would satisfy her childhood crush on him. If anything, it had only made it grow more, but she hadn’t been sure of her survival. It hadn’t been done right in the metaphorical sense. Life was too short to ‘take it slow’, but maybe waiting until they just had more time to be together, instead of a quick rut in the darkness of Winterfell, was fair.

When Gendry pulled away, he breathes out heavily. He cannot keep himself from her, and dips back down for another kiss, and then again.

“I will be back for the council,” He tells her.

It is a promise and a question all at the same time.

Arya stands on her toes to kiss him one more time, “You’d better.”

 

_T H R E E_

 

The Lords and Ladies of the Kingdoms that come to the council seem to pop up from nowhere. There are people that Arya has not given a thought to in years, such as Howland Reed and Yohn Royce. Her cousin Robin appears, looking much older than she remembered him, but she supposes she’s grown up a great deal too. Girls giggle over him like Sansa once giggled over Joffrey, and she imagines he’ll have a pick of a wife now. Lots of people seem to be settling down. Arya and Sansa had shared a conversation where they theorized how many new children would be born nine moons from now; their conclusion, a lot.

There are also new faces of people filling holes where they can, people that Arya did not know names of until they arrived, such as Lord Hightower or the new Dornish prince. It feels so bizarre to be around so many people who have such importance in the world right now. They all sort of eye each other warily, since no one is sure what’s going to happen next.

It seems, as Lords and Ladies continue to fill the Red Keep the only one who has not arrived yet is Gendry.

She waits for a Raven with an explanation to his tardiness some days, and others she finds herself sitting at the windows waiting for him to arrive. She is anxious for his return. Just like their new world, she is unsure where it is going to lead them, but there is a certainty with their relationship that others do not have. Gendry loves her, and for all it is worth, Arya is fairly sure she loves him too.

Arya tries to visit Jon during her time without Gendry, but Grey Worm aggressively guards his cell, which is more or less one of the few surviving rooms with a lock. While Grey Worm applauds her for killing the Night King, he is not moved enough to allow her visitation with her dearest sibling.

She finds herself spending time with Sansa, since Bran isn’t much for conversation anymore. It’s quite bittersweet that it took all that time and war for the pair of sisters to feel like family to one another. She isn’t sure she believes in an afterlife, but if there is one, she knows their parents are looking down upon them and smiling.

The trio of Starks go down to the council together. Sansa had arrived not long after Gendry had, but Arya knows she’s itching to get back to the North. Her feelings toward King’s Landing have turned bitter and spoiled, and she wants to linger here no more than Arya does.

Arya fears that Gendry will not make it all, and that maybe that was the last time they were fated to see each other, and how she wishes she said more. They sit in their chairs, and watch as the others fill up.

Then, somehow, Gendry is there. She curses herself for not paying better attention, but he and Davos walked in together. He hands off a piece of luggage to a nearby squire, which tells Arya he just arrived, and walks upon the dais.

He’s wearing Baratheon-style clothes. Arya recalls the look that King Robert used to have was very similar to the overcoat he has on. It makes him look just as much a Lord as any of these others, if not more, because he wears it so well.

Across the platform, he catches her eye. Arya holds herself in her chair to keep from going up and kissing him and then hitting him for taking so long. Or hitting him and then kissing him. Some order like that.

There isn’t time for words, because Grey Worm is bringing out Tyrion.

After, Gendry is pulled away by Tyrion and Ser Davos to settle himself. Bran, the newly-minted King, just smiles at Arya with that sort of creepy smile he’s been wearing of late. Arya wants to know if he sees something between her and Gendry, but decides she’d rather find out herself instead of merely being told.

The Lords that were invited will be staying at least half a fortnight, to transition this new way, as well as to try to create some semblance of a united Kingdom again. Gendry is due to stay for a whole fortnight, Arya hears from a passing pair of ladies, and fourteen whole days with him seems like a gift Arya isn’t sure how to use.

By the time Arya returns to her room, Gendry is already there.

Arya, now in the safety of her closed door, throws down her sword and cape and launches herself at him, pulling him down to her height to kiss him.

“You’re nearly late,” She scolds.

“I’m sorry, m’lady,” He teases, and she shoves him playfully, but with enough strength to send him back a few steps, “Apparently, installing yourself as the new Lord of Storm’s End is more difficult than I thought. Did you miss me?”

“You absolute idiot,” Arya just mumbles, and she feels like that’s answer enough. Gendry laughs against her kiss, wrapping his arms around her. Arya cannot remember the last time she felt so content.

Gendry growls low in his throat, his kisses turning more wanting, harder against her lips. Arya fists her hands at the nape of his neck, letting Gendry pick her up. It’s like she’s nothing more than a twig with how easily he’s able to lift her, but then again, he didn’t spend years in the forge for nothing.

There’s a writing desk near the entrance to her room, and it’s the closest surface, but Arya is still surprised when he sets her on top of that instead of the bed.

“Too far,” He says quickly at her raised brow, which tells her how badly he needs her, since the bed- albeit at the end of the room- is maybe twenty or so steps away, “When you threatened to cut Yara’s throat in the meeting, seven hells, Arya…” Gendry says, slotting himself between her legs and yanking her against him.

He’d been kind enough to let her take the lead their first time, and the look of awe on his face was something Arya still saw on the backs of her eyelids late at night. She was entirely agreeable, however, to allow Gendry to take control right now. There was something a little bit freeing about letting go and encouraging Gendry to have his way with her.

All her thoughts that their second time would be slow were vanishing slowly, but Arya just told herself their third time could be sweet.

Arya yanks off her tunic with the same urgency she had the first time, and once her top was bare, Gendry’s palms find her breasts. There is a little more exploration with his hands, sliding up and down her torso and back to her shoulders, just as Arya’s fingers work to undo the nice leather jacket. It was probably very expensive, but neither gave a damn about it as it slides onto the floor and is shoved back by Gendry’s heel.

Gendry steps away from Arya with just enough space between them for both of them to slide out of their pants. Arya’s smallclothes and pants hit the floor, whereas Gendry’s fell halfway down his legs before he was moving back. Arya’s fingers wrap around him as his fingers travel between her legs, but didn’t stay long once he felt how slick she was.

Arya was already lining him up, and when he pushes in her, Arya let out a breathless moan.

This was always going to be a quick, almost rough second time. One of Arya’s arms loops around his neck, her other hand gripping the edge of the desk as he moves inside of her. One of his arms is holding Arya as close to him as he can, their slightly sweating skin sealing against the other, his forehead dropped into the shallow of her neck. She can feel him panting on her collarbone, exhaling as he fucks her. His other hand marks lines on the top of her leg as he lifts it up, angling himself just the right way to make Arya see stars behind her closed eyes.

He’s truly a bull, Arya thinks, despite his heritage making him a deer. A deer wouldn’t be so deliciously rough, a deer wouldn’t have the utter strength he does, a deer’s mouth wouldn’t feel so warm as he nips on her neck. He’s the only Baratheon left; if he changed his sigil to a bull, who would tell him he couldn’t?

The hand that had been on her leg moved back between her legs, playing with the tiny bundle of nerves that Arya had explored by herself when it was night and she thought of Gendry. She is unprepared for the way that her pleasure peaks, washing over her and leaving her boneless. Gendry finishes a moment later, and they stay joined for much longer than Arya thinks is normal, but she isn’t about to move.

As the haze of need lessons, Arya can hear rhythmic thumping coming from the room next to hers. She’s fairly sure that it’s Robin Arryn in there, and while she feels weird knowing her cousin is having sex too, Gendry’s expression makes her laugh.

“I’m glad everyone else has similar ideas,” Gendry says after a moment, “I’m guessing we weren't quiet.”

Arya didn’t realize it during, but she winces as she recalls moaning and saying Gendry’s name. It had felt like a dream at the time, but yes, she’s sure someone had heard her.

Before Arya can hide herself away at this, Gendry has picked her up and now puts her on the bed. He crawls next to her, fingers tracing over the scars on her stomach and torso.

“We have all night,” He says, “And I’m not leaving.” It’s not a request, it’s an announcement. Arya wasn’t about to kick him from her bed anyway, “Tell me what happened after we parted.”

“It’s a long story,” Arya warns.

Gendry’s hands push her hair behind her ear, “For once, we have all the time in the world.”

 

_F O U R_

 

Arya’s decision to sail west is born out of a couple of different things. The biggest deciding factor is that Arya does not know exactly who she is other than a Stark. She wishes that this were enough, but she is a Stark that has no desire to ever return to Winterfell. Because of that, she feels a little shattered. She feels like she has to rebuild herself somehow, and she’s not entirely sure that’s possible anywhere within the Seven Kingdoms.

She could have paid for any boat she wished. Sansa and Bran both were offering her as much money as she required, and with their blessing, Arya decides to craft a vessel worthy of a wolf, with her family’s sigil at the front and in the sails. She wants it to be unmistakable that Arya is from the North, even if she goes West.

Gendry has his responsibilities and Arya has her own. She knows she would not be happy right now as his lady. She had spent so much of her time just surviving that she’s never given time to any of her own happiness. There is an itch in her bones that needs to be scratched, and she is sure that until this happens, she would not find solace in a castle somewhere.

No one is going to tell Arya no. She is free to wear pants and sword-fight, and any of the Lords or Ladies that are left would jump at the chance to offer Arya ‘Dawnbrighter’ Stark a room in their halls as she waits for her ship to be built.

There is only one place that seems logical.

Storm’s End builds itself up under the careful eye of Gendry Baratheon.

Arya knew she’d be lying if she said Gendry wasn’t disappointed when she shared her plans with him, but in time, he understands. Plus, she’s not saying goodbye forever, just for a little while. Arya has every intention of coming back to Westeros.

“It wouldn’t be worth it if I found what’s out there and then never came back to share it,” She said very logically to Gendry, “I’ve mapped out a three-year journey.”

After three years, Arya tells herself she’ll revisit the idea of being with Gendry, but she knows in her heart she will only make it so long before she wants to come back to him. She’s hoping she’ll even last three years. She has the idea, however, that she’ll be surer of who is is when she returns.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” Arya tells Gendry, “That’s not fair to you.”

“I’ll tell you over and over until you get it,” Gendry responds, “I don’t want anyone else. I’d wait a hundred years for you.”

If Arya were more of a romantic, that would nearly make her cry. As it is, it certainly makes her smile.

It’s not a secret that Arya shares Gendry’s bed in Storm’s End. No one says anything directly, but they also do not hide it. No one bothers Gendry for a wife or a son. Everyone is just glad they’re alive and peace is here.

The night before Arya leaves, she and Gendry kiss quietly and slowly, and he move in and out of her at a languid pace, both of them more focused on each other than the act of making love. It’s a comfort. Arya can feel Gendry’s heartbeat through his skin, against her chest, and she vows to remember this moment.

“I love you, you know,” Arya says. She does not say it enough.

“Yes,” Gendry replies, “and you know I love you too.”

Arya will return. She does not look back to Storm’s End as she boards the boat, but under her clothes and under her coat with the Stark sigil is a tiny deer necklace she had made. Tied to the chain is a piece of Gendry’s shirt, as though she were a knight asking for his favor in a tournament.

It rests against her heart and is her compass home.

 

_F I V E_

 

For most of her journey, Arya is cut off from Westeros. It is only about once every eight months, when she returns back to an island near Braavos for supplies as she charts the world beyond, that Arya gets ravens. There is a Maester there that keeps them saved up for her, tied with a string. Arya always eagerly tears into them once she’s in her captain's quarters, laying out the parchments and wax sigils across her floor like a mosaic.

Sansa continues to write her often, as does Ser Brienne. Both of the woman keep her up to date with their own struggles and triumphs to carve out this new world. Sansa always talks to Arya like she was standing in front of her, a friendly and casual correspondence. Ser Brienne is more formal, but she always signs the bottom with ‘love Brienne’ at the bottom, which makes Arya feel happy. They keep Arya updated on the gossip and marriages of the realm, and Arya is always terrified that one day it will be an announcement for Gendry’s wedding, even if she gave him permission.

It never comes.

Sansa also tells Arya about all the children that were born, a lot within the time they had so expected, and it makes Arya happy to imagine a new world being created over in Westeros, with a new generation of children who will never know the horrors they all experienced. Sansa herself had not married, but does have a son, who she gives the Stark last name to. She will not tell Arya in writing who the father is, teasing that her dear sister will have to return home to discover this secret, and that Arya’s nephew little Eddard is being raised on stories of the most ferocious women in all of Westeros, his Aunt Arya.

She only gets one letter from Jon, informing her that he’s going with the Wildlings beyond the wall and may never return. Somehow, it seems right that Arya and Jon both have headed off to the theoretical ends of the world.

Arya gets the most letters from Gendry, however. It seems as though he almost writes her daily. He tells her about all his struggles in learning how to become a Lord, his quick wits and hilarious retellings giving her strength and making her laugh so hard she cries. He always ends the letter saying that he loves her more than anything else, and that one day, he’ll kiss her again.

Arya writes back when she is at the island, and she always returns the sentiments to Gendry.

Arya discovers worlds beyond. She meets people who have never heard of dragons or dire wolves or kings and queens. She finds other places to settle. She makes connections and relations and friendships. She is a girl who is not known by her triumphs across the sea, only as the traveler from afar.

She finds what she truly enjoys; helping others, encouraging life. She is never as happy as when she’s talking to an innkeeper and his family and aiding them in raising a roof or when she’s gathered children around and is telling them stories from the Seven Kingdoms, about knights and dragons and most of all about love.

After three years, she has more maps made than room to place them. She had spent the money given to her, but has prepared the lands beyond for others to come. She is sure there are many like her who are ready for something new and exciting. She promises to come back and visit one day, but she knows she is ready to go home now.

She returns to Gendry two years and ten moons later. She has not been no one for a long time, but she uses her once all-important skills to sneak into Gendry’s bedroom.

“Ask me again.”

Gendry nearly jumps out of his skin. He stares at Arya for a moment, jaw hanging low, as though he thinks her an apparition.

Then, he is crushing her in a hug.

“Ask me again,” Arya begs, burrowing her face into his chest. She is wearing very little; most of her clothes she’d taken off, since the air in Storm’s End is much warmer than Winterfell. Her necklace still hangs down, and although his shirt piece has long ago lost the scent, she still has it tied. It’s worn and threadbare from all the nights Arya would sit rubbing her fingers across it, thinking of him.

“I don’t…” Gendry pulls back, frowning.

Arya rolls her eyes, “I’m going to marry you, Gendry.” She says firmly, “You have a problem with that?”

“Gods, no, Arya-,” Gendry chokes on his words, kissing her softly at first, just a storm of light kisses all over her face, as he worships every inch of her, “You’re here to stay?”

“I’m home for good,” Arya confirms.

Gendry pulls back.

“I thought...you didn’t want to be a lady?”

“I won’t be,” Arya has had a long time to think about this, “I will be Arya Stark Baratheon, but seriously, who is going to command me to wear dresses or answer to ‘Lady’? It’s a new world, and we decided such. I’m can still be your wife and a mother and not be a lady at all. I think I realized while I was gone that I don’t have to chose one or the other; I can be both if I so want.”

“Okay,” Gendry said, shaking, “You know I’d never be able to say no to you,” He said, refusing to let go.

“Ask me again,” Arya commands a third time, a warm smile on her face.

Gendry bends down on one knee, as he had so long ago, holding Arya’s hands in his own.

“Arya Stark, will you marry me?”

Arya knelt down in front of him, kissing his hand softly, as she’d seen others do. Then, she kissed him once, “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS CANON TO ME AND YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE. THIS IS HOW IT HAPPENED AND D&D JUST CHOSE TO CUT THESE SCENES YOU HEAR ME??????
> 
> As for Sansa, anyone want to guess who I made the fahter? I have already decided, and that's another story I plan to write, because Sansa got the north yeah, but she also deserves love. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed! 
> 
> Viva la vida Gendrya fanfiction!


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